


Letter Writer

by shambling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, M/M, MWPP, Marauders' Era, Shoebox Project, canon character death, remus is lonely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus always wrote to Sirius. It was how they had passed every holiday, every time they spent apart. With James, Peter and Lily dead, and Sirius as good as, Remus saw no good reason to stop writing. He just didn't need to send them.</p><p>And so, for 12 years, Remus travels, learns, and writes to the man he once loved.</p><p> </p><p>In as far as its possible, this is canon compliant to the actual books, moon compliant to the actual dates apart from the first full moon, because of a research error, and takes the relationship basis from the wonderful, marvelous Shoebox Project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November 1st 1981 to December 31th 1981

1/11/81

 

 

 

P,

 

I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. Is it _true_?

 

M.

 

 

 

2/1/81

 

P,

 

We had suspected for some time of a spy in our midst but you? I could not ever have believed it possible. I do not want to believe it possible. Everyone around me is still celebrating, but I have not the heart to do so. I am leaving this flat, and I shall post the key to your mother. I am not sure where I shall go.

 

I am so, so angry with you, and so very disappointed.

 

I know you always said I seemed the type to keep a journal, but it does not feel right to do something so frivolous, even in these happy times. So I am writing these letters I cannot and will not send.

 

I thought I knew you. I thought I loved you. 

 

You have broken my heart.

 

M.

 

 

5/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

It seems that even I cannot break the habits of a lifetime, and stuck here as I am, I have nothing to do but think, and write. Maybe I shall send these to you, and have the Azkaban guards give them to you before you go mad. I am so very sad and angry, and this is no-one to share my pain.

 

They trusted you. We all did. Even as I had started to fear that I was wrong to do so. I had started to hate myself for fearing that you were a true Black after all. Now I feel glad. If there are any advantages to being stuck in a Berlin boardinghouse, time and nothing to occupy me, time to feel all my rage with its full irrational force. Christ you bastard. I cannot believe you would kill Peter too, he was such a fool.

 

I feel so very sorry for baby Harry. I would've offered him a home in an instant, but you're his only named Godfather in law, and what fool would leave their baby with ~~a~~ someone like me as its guardian. I only hope Lily was exaggerating about her family. 

 

I mustn't dwell too long however, Dumbledore has left me enough Wolfsbane to get me through the next moon. I miss your potions skills, I miss James' too. You bastard.

 

I must find another job. 

 

I hate you, but I miss you too.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

10/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

I am working, but only temporarily. I am helping an elderly widow to sort her library of magical texts. Just my thing you would've said, and Frauline Schneider is very nice. She brings me cups of tea and pieces of cake, and worries what I will do when we are finished. She has some most fascinating books. I have sent an owl to Dumbledore to ask if he would take some of them for the restricted section. She even has an original binding of Moste Potente Potions.

 

Whilst I am working I try not to think, it keeps my mind busy enough, cataloging, sorting out doubles, arranging to sell those she does not want and to repair those she does. At night. At night I try to remember that you could not have been all bad really. No-one could put up an act that good. Not for nearly a decade.

 

Maybe I am wrong, maybe I am just deluding myself. It is a pleasant kind of delusion.

 

I find it hard to sleep.

 

Moony 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

12/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

I stumbled across some muggle literature in the Widows collection today, it is a book I have told you about before called: _Goodbye to Berlin._ She tells me one of the characters in it is her, that for a time in the war she ran a boarding house, housing wizards and muggles alike. Quite how she kept the two apart I cannot understand. She says the author reminds her of me. 

 

I do not quite know whether to be offended or delighted. Both, I suppose.

 

She harbored him at a time when the muggles deemed it illegal to be homosexual. I wonder if she would harbor me? 

 

I can imagine you now, laughing and hitting me in the shoulder and telling me to just ask. But then, you always did think it a silly thing to be afraid of. Maybe even then you had His views. If there is one thing we can say for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (Note: HWMNBN?) then he is very pro my kind. Although I am uncertain whether viewing us as a useful biological weapon is quite the ideal. Still, I suppose they do not starve, although, with the good Frau's tea and cakes neither shall I for now.

 

Perhaps I shall tell her when I finish. If she is sympathetic, she might recommend me work, or a better place to stay, for my money will soon run out for this one. I shall ensure I am paid first.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

15/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

I cannot help but dwell, even when I am working. Do you think it hurts? To die? Do you think young Harry remembers anything? I find myself hoping over and over that you are as transfixed by nightmares as I am. That you too cannot sleep. But then, I cannot find it in my heart to hate for too long. You know it was never in my nature. 

 

Perhaps that is why I am writing letters to you that I will never send, rather than in a diary.

It makes it all feel less pointless.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20/11/81

 

 

P

 

I am all but finished with Frau Shnieder's collection, and she is pleased. The magical and non-magical books sit apart, the duplicates are gone (for a fine sum!) and the remainder are cataloged. I am relieved because the moon is near and I am oh so tired and weary. My bones ache, my throat hurts with the wolfs bane burn. In some ways I am glad that this may be the last time I can take it for a while. It is so good, but it hurts so.

 

I shall tell Frau Schneider tomorrow I think. What have I to lose?

 

M

 

 

 

 

 

 

24/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

So stupid of me, to imagine you awaiting my letter, as you did when we were at school. A fevered part of my brain imagined also, the glee I could have, withholding it from you. A short lived joy.

 

Frau Schneider is a modern woman, and has bid me stay awhile, and call her Greta. She is too kind, but I am glad of her kindness. She has given me a room of my own, and a small sitting room beside it. I am to give English lessons, to wizards and muggles alike, but to preserve my safety we have had to concoct me a new name, so I am calling myself John Howell.

 

I must sleep again. It is all too much to bear.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

28/11/81

 

Padfoot,

 

I am growing used to my new name, it is proving to be of small comforting amusement, as the Germans struggle with the 'w' sound, and call me Herr Hovell instead.

 

I had my first pupils through the door today, two young wizards who hope to visit my own dear Hogwarts one day. Funny how magic is the universal language. Herr Caspar is of about my age, maybe a little older, he reminds me a little of James, if James' hair had ever lain as neat and flat as Herr Caspar's does. His brother is like him made over in miniature, only 16 and not yet of age. His name is Christoph.

 

I also taught a young muggle woman, who goes by the name of Aldona. She is quite pretty, in a pointy sort of way, very boyish and slim and all triangular. Her English is already impeccable, but she tells me she wishes for someone to practice conversation with. 

 

  
~~Frau Sch~~ Greta says that is not all she wishes to practice. I would swear she likes to see me blush. She reminds me of you in an odd way.

 

I wonder who you share your days with, or if you share them with anyone at all but your memories.

 

Always yours, although I often wish I was not.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

1/12/81

 

Padfoot,

 

How strange to begin the countdown to Christmas without you, it is the first time in 10 years. I wonder if you retain human enough emotions for this to sting you as it goes me. I feel all the sadder, for I will spend Christmas alone. After all, mother is dead, as are James, Lily and Peter, and Dumbledore does not think it safe for me to return to Wales, or for my father to come to Berlin. I write to him almost daily, but it is not the same.

 

I am quite tempted to spend my Christmas blind drunk if I cannot spend it with anyone. It seems the best way.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

3/12/81

 

Padfoot,

 

A strange day. I do believe Aldona made a pass at me. I am invited out with her later and I said yes before I could think about it too much. I could imagine your disapproval and in some strange way that inspired me to get on and do it.

 

We are going for dinner shortly, and I am struggling to dress. She cannot be allowed to know that my only good outfit is a pair of your old dress robes.

 

I am hoping Greta can advise.

 

Your,

 

Moony

 

 

 

4/12/81

 

Oh Padfoot,

 

What a glorious and stupid misspelling at the end of my last letter. I suppose in many ways I am yours, I always will be, but you have broken that and broken my heart and broken me.

 

Bother, but I think I am still drunk.

 

Aldona was very nice and we kissed and she only flinched a little bit when she put her hands up my shirt and felt that big scar, you know the one. I told her I got it in a motor bike accident, and I think she believes me. She said she would kiss it better, and after that I rather panicked and ran inside and slammed the door in her face. I hope she will forgive me.

 

I hope you somehow know about this and will never forgive me.

 

Or will.

 

Do I want your blessings? Or your hate? I do not know. I do want a lie down, and a large glass of cold water and maybe some toast. 

 

Still yours, 

 

Moony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8/12/81

 

P,

 

I suppose I cannot have done too badly as Aldona came for her lesson as usual. It was fortunate hers is the last of the day, because we stayed talking for such a very long time that it was dark when we had finished and I felt the need to walk her home.

 

We kissed again but she did not ask me in. Is this "taking it slow"? Or is it how courtship should be I wonder.

 

Caspar and Christoph come on in leaps and bounds, although I have accidentally taught them both how to swear after I tripped over my own slippers earlier this week. I'm not sure I have ever been more mortified than giving a full, grammar lesson centering around the use of the word 'fuck'. But then, they tell me that what marks me out as a non-native German speaker is my inability to comprehend slang, so maybe it is helpful.

 

Dumbledore thinks I might be able to return to England in the new year. I cannot lie that I miss it dearly, not having to stop and think for the words before every transaction. I think I should miss the people I have met here though. Maybe they will write to me.

 

I have been offered another cataloging job in addition to my teaching, an elderly Wizard who knew the Dumbledore family of old, and so, for these last days before Christmas I shall immerse myself once more into the dust of ages, just as soon as the moon has passed.

 

The nightmares continue. I wonder do yours?

 

M

 

 

 

 

 

13/12/81

 

Padfoot,

 

Would you think me terrible if I admit that I give little thought to the struggles of the muggle community sometimes? The wall is a constant reminder here, but we are on what I believe to be the better side, and if I ever ceased to believe that I could apparate out of here in an instant.

 

Aldona tells me they have declared Martial Law in Poland, to deal with political dissidents, and she is scared for her family who still live there. I tried to discuss this with Greta, about whether we will live in the shadow of the fear of Him forever in the same way? She asked who I was talking about and I had to explain, which was quite the oddest feeling. Afterwards we debated what would've happened if Hitler had confined his interests to one country, whether our parents would have considered it a part of muggle history we needed to be made aware of. 

 

I feel quite out of sorts, and not just from spending all my daylight hours in a dusty old library. It is a big job, one that is likely to take me well into the new year, I must think of a reason to cease work on the 20th, although perhaps, for the first time in a very long time, I can blame only my own ill health. He is not a man I expect to see again.

 

He has however a frighteningly large section of his library devoted to lycanthropy. I only hope I can get this task finished and paid before it occurs to him to consult it.

 

I am to go out with Aldona again tonight. I might, as the muggles do, invite her in for "coffee".

 

I choose to think that in some ways you would be proud.

 

Yours, eternally,

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

14/12/81

 

**I had sex with a woman and she didn't run away screaming.**

 

 

 

 

15/12/81

 

Oh Padfoot,

 

I am quite sure it is a terrible thing to involve a nice young lady in a game of wits that one effectively plays against oneself, but there you have it, I have and I am. Aldona is really very nice, and is so keen to believe my motorbike story that she is convinced that even the scars on my face were caused by gravel. The most obvious one however, I told her was done by the family dog. She is so sweet and so innocent, she will make someone a most wonderful wife.

 

I continue to catalog the old wizards books, carefully avoiding the L's like a plague, for now at least. Fortunately the old man agrees that I should work through the alphabet, and as I am only up to D, I think I can stall him until after the next moon. Oh but it shall hurt, for it shall be the first for a while that I am to experience in its full exquisite agony. I must practice my silencing and unbreakable charms. 

 

I wish you were here to do them for me. Or to calm me. Or maybe just here so that I could tear you apart myself. I am still so very angry with you.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

19/12/81

 

Padfoot

 

I fear that they begin to suspect something. I cannot tell Aldona, and I most certainly cannot tell the wizard. I am forced to feign a feverish state, and to cough theatrically every so often so that they might not need to see me until after Christmas.

 

The aching in my bones slows me down, that I do not need to feign at all.

 

Moony

 

 

 

 

 

 

25/12/81

 

Merry Christmas Pads.

 

How is it? Our first Christmas apart in many a long year. Do you still have any thoughts of your own? I suppose, at this early stage, you can remember it all. I hope thoughts of your master sustain you. In some tiny ways I hope thoughts of me sustain you, as thoughts of you do for me.

 

I must still be not well, this is grammatically all over the place.

 

In deference to this blended Christmas we are having, Greta and I have celebrated quietly over two days. Yesterday we had carp and exchanged presents, today we are to have turkey, and to exchange some more presents. I have got her a book, and a box of sugared biscuits from the local market. So far she has given me a warm woolen jumper that she knitted herself. It is dark, forest green and very warm. She must've taken the measurements from one of my shirts when she washed them.

 

I am overwhelmed with the kindness she has shown me. Caspar and Christoph popped 'round too today, apologising for the lateness of their gifts, and bringing me a warm scarf (Blue). I am touched, if slightly embarrassed that my appearance is clearly shabby enough already for this to seem an appropriate set of gifts.

 

Aldona has given me a locket, and I may, in time, put you in the other side. I gave her a copy of Goodbye to Berlin and she seemed pleased enough. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

30/12/81

 

Oh Pads,

 

The worst has happened and I am found out. It seems that the old wizard decided to take on the cataloging himself in my absence. I went there today to work some more, but he presented me with half my fee and refused to open the door. He called me the most dreadful names, and said that I should never work in Germany again. He seemed to think that for a half fee I would not visit retribution upon him or his family, all though he took the precaution of paying it all in sickles, as though that might help.

 

I have written to Dumbledore that I must move on, I have promised Greta that I will write, and she has agreed to deal with Aldona, Caspar and Christoph, although I do not doubt the boys will find out soon enough.

 

I am a man of despair. Greta has given me a suitcase packed with her husbands old clothes, so at least I shall not freeze on my travels.

 

What a sight I must look, in a mix of everyone's clothes but my own.

 

As always,

Your Moony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

31/12/81

 

P

 

And so I ring in the new year in Spandau Forest. I thought briefly that I might apparate home, but there are death eaters on the loose, not yet locked up with you, and I cannot risk the life of the only one I have left.

 

I am very much sad and cold and alone. I wish I had a bottle of whiskey.

 

M


	2. January 1982 - February 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus moves to a research facility, but is all as it seems?

2/1/82

 

P

 

I wanted to get out of Germany, and Dumbledore's owl found me before I did. There are a group of researchers in Switzerland, hoping to refine Damocles' potion. I am bound now for their facility, I hope only that I can help.

 

M

 

 

5/1/82

 

P,

 

Switzerland is beautiful, but I am very cold and often find it necessary to wear my jumper beneath my robes, and my muggle great coat under my cloak. The mountains here are crisp and icy white, and the air is so very clear. When they do not test on me, I have time to myself and a great library in which I sit, drinking tea and reading. Did you know that around the time of the witch burnings switzerland had werewolf trials? Of course, on the rare occasion they caught one, they healed well. It saddens me to think of the innocent people broken and tortured because of anothers fear.

 

The researchers here are nice, but quite odd. They seem keen to help,  but flinch back from touching me as though my very skin could harm them. The moon itself is only days away, but I am quite harmless until then, and they have already shown me their secure room, should the potion not work.

 

In truth they have no reason and every reason to fear me. My only fear is that the potion should in someway malfunction. Not a fear that it would kill me, more that I may have reason to become trapped as a werewolf. I cannot imagine the horror, but I suppose I would not know it happening either, and so it could all be worse. If only it were to taste a little nicer than the wolfsbane does now. It really is a terrible pity that sugar makes it useless.

 

Anyway, I must go and take my first dose. Here's hoping that they've got it right.

 

M

 

 

 

 

 

 

6/1/81

P,

It is a real pity sugar makes it useless. They got the dose all wrong too, lucky they had a beozoar (also foul) the only plus side for now is that the muggles in Switzerland make very good chocolate. It is sweeter and creamier than I would usually go for, but when feeling quite as sorry for myself as I do now, it's just the ticket.

I remember before, writing to you, and you would write back to me with yours and James' adventures. When did it all go so wrong? When did you stop loving us? Me? Or was it all a front? 

I slept badly, the nightmares seem worse when you've narrowly escaped your own death.

Sometimes I hope you are suffering. Sometimes I wish only that maybe one of us can still be enjoying their life.

M

15/1/82

Padfoot,

Tell me, what fool would try to rip out their own still beating heart? He's got two thumbs and is growing stubble and writes letters to his incarcerated ex-best friend. I swear if they pack anymore silver and dittany into my chest I shall be more than half metal. 

It hurts to breathe. In some ways, the pain is good. It is like a physical manifestation of you, only they can heal this and make it almost as good as new. 

Greta sent me an owl, she told Aldona my father had become ill, and that I would write as soon as I could. Caspar and Christoph know the truth, and have sent me a box of biscuits. She says Caspar remarked that "once you got to know a man, you could overlook almost anything" which I suppose is a compliment. The biscuits are good and taste of fire and ginger, but they make me think of you. I wonder if I could ever overlook what you have done.

Your,

Moony

18/1/82

P,

I have grown a most foolish beard, not my style at all and I can imagine you, James and Peter laughing at me every time I look in the mirror. Sometimes this makes me smile, mostly it just makes me sad. I am growing better and stronger at least, and the hole in my chest is receding, albeit slowly.

In many ways the biggest problem is that the less I leave my bed, the less inclined to leave it I feel. There is always a nice young lady or gentleman to bring me everything I could desire or need, and so long as I take my potions and my meals they let me keep to myself mostly. Although I do miss the conversation. 

Sometimes I write letters to father, or to Greta, or I concentrate on breathing deeply. They are anxious that I should be well enough to try a new potion variant for the next moon.

M

21/1/82

P,

Walked around the facility today. Everything is very white & clean & stark. Shaved my beard off but left a mustache to see if it suits me. I wish I was really writing to you and that I could send you a picture. I think it looks good, but it does make me look older. I shall keep it for a few days to see how I feel. Everything is the same, even the landscape never changes. I read, and I sleep, and I wait.

M

1/2/82

P,

A new potion to try soon, a new hope. Maybe I can ask them to teach me how to brew better for myself whilst I am here. Very little changes, I feel tired and sad and sleep often and eat little. 

M

8/2/82

P,

I did not think anything could taste worse than wolfsbane, but this new one seemingly does. I feel very tired and heavy in the head and quite stupid. It is as though it weakens me to the strength of a newborn kitten. I wonder if I could bear it every month if it weakened or stopped the wolf?

M

25/2/82

P

So tired. Nothing holds meaning. 

M


	3. March 1982- April 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus grows stronger in some ways, and sadder in others.

10/03/82

 

P,

 

It is my birthday and  I wish I felt able to sit up let alone celebrate. Father sent a card. I cannot seem to read it, it was a hard moon.

 

M

 

 

28/03/82

 

 

Padfoot,

 

When was the last time anyone carried you in their arms? Like a damsel in distress? I am trying to remember, I think you carried me over the threshold of that flat, but it seems like the memories belong to someone else and are very far away.

 

Mere days ago, my father carried me, as he used to do when I was a child. Tucked up in his arms, close to his chest. It seems he had grown worried when I ceased to write, and thank goodness I write letters I still send, not just to you. He apparrated in to get me, and I have become a most frightful sight. I cannot remember when I last left my bed, and there are wounds upon me that no amount of magic seemed to heal. He has been beside himself ever since, and I have been returned to my childhood bedroom. 

 

It feels very odd to be here without mother, but then, it always does. I am glad she does not see me like this. Even Dumbledore came to visit, and he is mortified. He promises he had recommended me in good faith, and maybe he did. I cannot tell, even now, if they meant to kill me by inches and degrees, or if it was simply misplaced attempts at care. I am inclined to believe the latter, but Dumbledore has been wrong before I suppose. I can imagine, all too clearly, you and James both murderous with rage. I can imagine Peter's terror, it doesn't help. 

 

It was James' birthday yesterday and I could not cry anymore for him than I already do.

 

The nightmares return with my strength, and I sometimes wake my father, but he claims not to mind. In some ways, I wonder whether my being at home helps him, filling the empty space. He has started to make friends in the local area at least, a mixture of muggles and non, so as soon as I am fit, I shall move on to a place of my own, I cannot disturb the life he has built for himself.

 

Perhaps I will find a nice library to work in, settle down a while. I shall work towards fulfilling all your expectations of me in time. That is all I have left. The sad promises I once made to a boy I thought I knew.

 

Ever yours,

 

Moony

 

 

31/03/82

 

P,

 

The time this year seems to be flowing by in fits and starts. maybe that is what happens when you loose a month or more trapped in your own body. 

 

I left not only my room today, but the house, and sat in the small back garden, admiring fathers flowers. He seemed very pleased with my recovery, although he assures me he does not wish me kicked out. I know I cannot stay here for more than 2 or maybe 3 transformations though, or the neighbors will grow suspicious. Father receives the Prophet, so I am catching up on the news since I have been gone. 

 

They say he has gone to Albania, to hide, and so I think I shall avoid Albania for the time being. They say you were sent down without a trial, that you were taken in still laughing, that Peter. That his mother has received the O.M. Oh Sirius, you always were a trouble maker, but it pains me to believe it.

 

Today I read that Karkaroff was released in return for names. I wonder if you saw him go. I wonder if he is truly safe to be let go.

 

M

 

 

 

 

1/04/82

 

P,

 

How foolish to weep for April Fools Day and for pranks long gone. 

 

M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

05/04/82

P,

 

Today I realised that I recalled James' Birthday and forgot Lily's and felt terrible for some time. Father tells me that I weep for every day that is no longer a celebration then I should never stop crying. He is right, but I still feel very sad and awful. The tulips are coming out and today I walked to the end of the lane and back again, but father worries I will be too weak to transform in the coming days. If only the moon and the long nights could understand that sometimes we are not able to cope with the demands of their cycling pull.

 

But then if one could opt out, it would be no curse at all and I would not be in such a state.

 

M

 

 

 

09/04/82

 

P,

 

I am frightened, please don't let me die tonight. Or perhaps do. It would be better than this pain.

 

M

 

 

 

10/04/82

 

I did not die. But I ache so very badly. I may never come out of this bath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

12/04/82

 

Pads,

 

I had my first contact from other Order members in some time today. Arabella and Deadelus wrote to say that young Harry is doing well. My heart aches that so few of us are left. Minerva, (and doesn't it feel strange even now? To call her by her proper name?) is busy teaching of course, as is Dumbledore, running the school. Perhaps you know, perhaps not, that your cousin and her husband tortured the Longbottoms to insanity? I did not until today, and in some ways I believe I preferred the ill informed contentment I had been living in.

 

But I walked to the post office myself today, sending my condolences to Mrs Longbottom Sr, and thanking the others for writing. I think that soon I shall leave the country again, it hurts too much to be here, to be reminded of you, & all the others I have lost in so short a space of time.

 

I might tutor again, perhaps I can teach muggle studies to young wizarding children abroad. 

 

I dreamed of you last night, of the time before. 

 

Moony

 

14/04/82

 

 

P,

 

I write to you, not on parchment, but in a fine journal. I wonder why I still insist on addressing you, as those these are letters,  but perhaps, it makes me feel better. I feel less alone, writing to you, a past you, the idiot boy of 17 I loved so dearly, but this book is sensible, it travels better, and is less likely to become irretrievable than parchment.

 

Father took me to the pub today, to meet his muggle friends. They think he is a retired Government official, and I suppose in that sense they are not so deluded. He told them that I was a Journalist, thus explaining away my long absences, sudden appearances and disappearances. He told them I had been covering a war, that I had become mixed up in it, and that I was home for a short while to recuperate. Fortunately they are all very fine and strong old welshmen, so they did not ask for any more details. 

 

He has also told them that my name is John.

 

And to think, all those years of teasing endured, and he hasn't the confidence to explain why his son is called Remus. I suppose John is a more convincingly muggle name. I imagine you laughing at this, but let me remind you Sirius Orion, that at least I have a sensible middle name to fall back on. 

 

There again, I cannot in a thousand years imagine your parents trying to blend in with muggles in a muggle pub, so...

 

One of the men, also called John, is a book binder, and it is he who gave me this journal: "for writing your stories in" as he put it. I am so very grateful and touched, it almost seems a waste to write to you in it, but it is too late to turn back now.

 

 

Maybe I shall find somewhere to write stories to you from, somewhere warm and sunny and far away from here.

 

Maybe I shall call myself John.

 

M x

 

 

Maybe I am drunk.

18/04/82

P,

With every passing day my health improves. Today I helped father tackle a boggart, it turned itself into half a moon and quite by accident we finished it off with our giggling. It is disquieting to me that they still take this form, I thought I had learned to manage my fear but apparently not.

I realise I do not know, even now, what form it might take for you. Fleas perhaps?

I have walked into the village every morning this week for milk and bread, and the locals call me "Young John" which is pleasing. I suppose I am quite, young that is. There were times when I did not expect to see 22. Truthfully there are days when I wish I hadn't. How horrible to be the one left mourning, but then I never did feel I quite fitted in. Always the queer one, the outlier. 

Sometimes when I write to you it helps, but recently it serves only to make me sad. But then, I fear that if I did not set my thoughts down somewhere, that my brain my explode them out at random moments. Imagine, if I were to walk into the bakers and shout into Mary's face "MY BEST FRIEND KILLED MY OTHER BEST FRIENDS BUT I STILL MISS HIM". I think she would be very much alarmed. 

No. Best to keep things between me and you, just like old times.

Always,

M

21/04/82

P,

Hagrid wrote to me today, and he is the first person to mention you by name in months.

He has your bike and, to the best of my knowledge, has been taking good care of it, although he is considering changing it from red and black to powder blue. I can only imagine how you'd wince. I think it would be much the same face as when I explained why you shouldn't have a naked muggle woman painted on it. 

But I digress.

 Never could fathom the man. He has invited me to stay there for a while over the summer if I would like to, and I may yet take him up on the offer. I don't yet know if my heart can bear it, but it might be nice. Who knows what the summer will bring.

I keep going back to his letter, to see your name there, it does not matter who writes it, it always comes out looking elegant.

Sirius.

Sirius.

Sirius.

As always,

Remus


End file.
